


Standing By II

by oooknuk



Series: Standing By [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Grief, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 20:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Is Mac crazy or possessed? And with Richie dead and the Highlander missing, what will Joe and Methos do?





	Standing By II

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Language and a lot of angst. Still no goddamn sex.

Lord of all he surveyed, he stood in his bar and crushed down - again - the overwhelming urge to inflict mindless violence on the innocent woodwork and mirrors that represented more than half his savings and the whole of his retirement plan. And that was only because whapping the crap out of stained pine and glass was a lot more expensive, and infinitely less satisfying than whapping the crap out of those who really deserved it. Namely one Joe Dawson, Duncan fucking MacLeod of the fucking Clan MacLeod and Methos AKA Adam Pierson AKA 'where the fuck are you when _I_ need you, buddy?', in no particular order.

He gripped his cane and walked over to one of the tables - tables he had chosen with care, and wiped and cleaned and maintained with equal care because listening to good music and drinking good booze was just so much better if the table top wasn't sticky, or too small, or didn't wobble because the legs were uneven. When the lights were low, the service friendly and not intrusive, where the owner and his barman took care to know the name of everyone who'd ever come in and said 'hey', where there was enough room to move around, plenty of places to sit, to be cosy, to be expansive, to suit many moods. _Le Blues Bar_ was a monument to one man's love and attention to detail.

It was all he had left now. Mac and Methos were gone. Missing, presumed fruit looped. At least Mac was. Methos, well, he'd probably never been the full biscuit barrel, but he'd talked a good game, and that was normally enough. Right up until the moment when the man he loved had killed his student and begged him to take his head. Five thousand years of faking it shed like a winter coat on the first warm day of spring, and all that was left were one old fool holding another old fool crying his guts out over a dead friend and the man who murdered him,

Even in the depths of his grief that awful night, Joe had been able to tell that Methos was torn in half. Stay - or go? Help the mortal with the dead kid, help the Immortal looking for death. Joe made the decision for him. "Go on - you gotta stop him hurting himself, Methos."

Even then Methos hadn't let him go, still holding him close, his shoulder under Joe's head, strong, supporting - and so tight with tension as he tried to fight the impulse to go after Mac that he literally vibrated. Joe finally had had to push him away, damning his tears to hell if they didn't stop _right_ now so he could convince Methos where the greater need lay. He wasn't being noble - the last thing he wanted was to face having to write Mac's closing report on top of Richie's. He'd had decades of experiencing of putting off pain until there was time and space to deal with it. There hadn't been either just then.

"Go, hurry up, Methos. He's got his car - run, dammit!"

With a last, startled look, Methos had given him one last ... surprising ... embrace, and then run as fast as his long legs would carry him, more than fast enough to catch a sorrowing, barely coherent Highlander.

Or so Joe had hoped. It'd been three days before Methos finally called, sounding harassed and worried sick. "I've got him, Joe. No, can't say where. Safer for all of us."

"Is he ... you think ...?" How _did_ you ask how crazy a guy was?

"He's out of his mind," Methos had said bluntly. "When he remembers he killed ... you know ... he keeps saying Ahriman did it. Most of the time he thinks Richie's still here. And that I'm trying to kill the kid."

"Bad?" Joe asked. "Is he trying to whack you?"

"Not handcuffed and hogtied, he's not." There was a long pause, and then a heavy sigh. "This is ... beyond me. I think he needs help, more help than I can give."

"But who?" Joe had asked, despairingly. "We can't take him to a mortal doctor ... and there ain't any Immortal ones we can ask ...."

"No, not any more," Methos had said coldly, but the anger wasn't for Joe, he knew. It wasn't even for Mac. Methos blamed himself for the death of Sean Burns and there wasn't anything Joe had ever been able to say to make him feel different. Telling him that saving Sean would probably have meant the death of Duncan MacLeod had cut absolutely no ice.

"So what do we do?"

"For now? Nothing. Rest, time. Standard response to unforeseen dilemmas." That had been funny the first time Methos had come out with it. Joe wasn't laughing now. "I should have seen this coming, Joe," Methos added softly. "So much sorrow, so much stress. More than one man can bear and not break."

"We both should have," Joe agreed, not absolving, just sharing the blame. "We should've listened to Richie - we should've done _something_ then."

"Before that, Joe. Looking back, I think maybe he was cracking up by the time he killed Gordon. All that rage, the aggression. It made sense then - maybe I should have seen it was a sign."

Joe wasn't convinced - Mac had behaved pretty much as Mac always had, if you allowed for the involvement of Methos, which always screwed the equation. "After Bordeaux ... he wasn't the same," he ventured.

"No. Perhaps not."

There was a long silence. Joe cleared his throat. "Listen, Methos - do you need anything? Money, cover? We got resources, anything he needs...."

"I think I have everything I need for this except the brains to cure him," Methos said, his self-hatred painful to hear. Joe ached to be able to touch him, to offer him the comfort Methos had given him. "I'll try to keep in touch - but don't try to find us, it's not safe. And don't send anyone after us - he's so paranoid, he's bound to see them as a threat."

It galled Joe that once again he was going to have to conceal Immortal business from the Watchers, but in this case, he reluctantly agreed Methos was right. "What about the barge?"

"Lock it up, do what you need to. But leave it moored, try not to disturb it - it's his home. We may have to use it. Or not. Oh fuck, I don't know anything about this!" Methos said savagely, his despair raw and painful to hear.

"You're doing all anyone could, buddy. He needs a friend." There was a pause he couldn't help. "A strong friend he can't hurt. Richie never saw it coming, I bet. You won't make that mistake."

"No, at least I won't do that." A silence. "What about you, Joe? Are you handling things?"

He tried to sound calm, strong. "The funeral's tomorrow."

"I wish I could ... be there for you." Joe heard a choked chuckle, and even he had to smile a little at the touchy feely speak. "I do, Joe. And so will he. I just wish I could be in two places at once."

"Well, you can't, so stop killing yourself. Richie's dead. You or Mac being here won't change that." He was gruffer than he meant to be but he wasn't going to fucking well cry down a fucking phone to God knows where.

"I will come back. And if there is an ounce of justice and mercy in the world, Mac will come too."

"Big 'if'," Joe choked out.

"Yes, I know. Joe - look after yourself. When he gets - we get - back, we'll need you to be fit and well. Two of us being wrung out and exhausted is enough." The tone was light, but behind it, Joe could hear that Methos was indeed describing himself. Involuntarily, an image of a pale tired man, trustingly asleep in front of him, rose and suddenly Joe missed Methos so much, his heart tightened to the point he honestly thought he was having a heart attack. "Joe? Joe?" Methos asked in alarm, as the silence lengthened. "Are you there?"

"I'm ... all right, kid." He struggled and succeeded in putting a cheeky spin on the last word.

It worked. " _Kid?_ "

"How old is Adam Pierson?"

He heard a little chuckle again. "You win. Get some sleep, dad."

"Dad?"

"Old enough to be," Methos translated and Joe knew those dangerous eyes of his were crinkling up. "I'll try to call again. But don't panic if it's a while - he, uh, gets kind of stressed about seeing people using phones around him."

Oh boy. "I won't. And Methos, he couldn't be in better hands."

"He _could_ ," Methos said dryly, "but just now, I'm all we've got. Good night, Joe."

"You too, Methos."

* * *

Nearly three weeks had passed. Richie's funeral had gone smoothly, friends and family only, no flowers by request and who the _hell_ did he think he was kidding? The boy hadn't called but three people family. One died, one killed him, one buried him. Joe had known going in that no one but him was gonna be at that service, but by Christ, the kid wasn't going into cold Parisian soil without anyone to say the words, to drink to his memory. Even nameless bodies dredged out of the Seine got that much.

And then all that was done and all he could do was Watch and fret. Not even Watch properly seeing how as his subject was currently missing and nutso into the bargain. Why the hell hadn't Methos called? Joe'd tried calling the number back the old man had used - disconnected. That meant they were on the move - or Mac had got loose and killed Methos. Or Methos had killed him. Jesus H. Christ on a crutch! Was there ever gonna be any good news?

He'd expected more grief from Watcher HQ than he'd got. He knew it looked bad, him arranging the funeral and Richie's pitifully small estate, had been prepared to argue his corner, and shove his resignation in their faces if they pushed. But they hadn't - the death of a student at the hands of any Immortal teacher was shocking enough, but when it was MacLeod.... They all knew he was different, better - going to take the prize. Hell, Methos knew it too, it was the main reason the guy hung around, apart from the whole 'I'm fool in love with Mac even if the idjit doesn't know it' thing. For MacLeod to do something so ... mindless, so incredibly, totally indefensible ... had rocked the Watchers from the top to the bottom. It was like people were afraid the bad luck would infect them too. Joe had been pretty much left alone to do as he damn well pleased.

Actually, what he damn well would have been pleased to do would be to have got a call, better still, a personal visit from either one of them, so finally he could get some sleep. Every night it was an effort. He would try very hard not to see Richie's body pouring out blood all over that filthy racetrack floor. Not to see Mac, chanting in Lakota, before offering his beautiful sword and his even more beautiful neck to his friend, or Methos' face as he realised what he'd been asked to do, and why. Every night, it got harder.

He was too old for this shit. If he'd said it once, he'd said it once an hour on the hour since Richie's death. Maybe it was true. Hell, he was fifty. Lots of guys retired at fifty, did something else. Like stopped and ran a bar, made a little sweet music. He didn't _need_ Mac's crap on top of his own.

But he had needed Methos. His friendship, his support - the evidence he represented that human existence could encompass all manner of horrors and beauty and the witness could still be sane. Well, sort of.

More than needed. He loved Methos and he missed him. There, he could just admit that, no one was listening. He missed the old man propping up the bar, his conversation. Those demure, cheeky eyes, the hands that windmilled when he was excited and which, in repose, would make Michelangelo weep. Probably had done.

An impatient thumping on the front door one night when the weather had been foul and they had closed early. Joe's temper had snapped. He was going to _enjoy_ reaming whatever shitwit it was who couldn't read the four inch high letters hanging right fucking _there_ on the door. 'Closed/Fermé'. English and French. How many languages don't you read, mon ami, Monsieur shit for brains? Too ugly, poor or stupid to find someone to spend the night with? Oh, yeah, Joe had a few zingers up his sleeve.

But he hadn't let one of them fly. It had been Methos, in the rain, waiting to be let in. Joe could hardly get the door open fast enough for either of them, and the fact Methos stumbled as he walked was probably was as much because Joe was yanking on his arm as the fact the man was exhausted. White-faced with tiredness. "Where's Mac?" Joe asked sharply, but still giving Methos an arm as they headed for the bar and the drink the Immortal clearly needed. Methos' wet coat was shed and left carelessly over a chair.

"He got away from me. I'm sorry, Joe." Methos climbed onto a stool, nearly falling off again and gripped Joe's hand as he reached out instinctively to catch him. "Sorry," he repeated. "Just a bit tired."

"A bit, huh? Here." Beer wouldn't cut it - he got out the Laphroaig, poured out a half a tumbler full. The first drink was wasted on Methos - he gulped it back like water and set the empty glass down with shaking fingers. Joe refilled it and this time, the expensive, peaty spirit was savoured as it deserved. "Is he ...? Alive, I mean?"

"As far as I know. I haven't seen him since last night. He was here."

"In Paris?"

"Yeah. I thought he was doing better." Methos stared down at his glass which he was clutching tight, as if he was cold and the whiskey could warm him up. "Thought it was time he got home, got back in touch with reality. We ... talked ... about this thing. I thought I'd convinced him that he needed help. He was thinking of going to see Cassandra - said she knows about visions and healing. I was going to take him there."

Joe was appalled. Mac, in that witch's hands? Methos in easy reach? "No way, you can't ..."

Methos raised his hand. "Yes, I know. I was going to be chauffeur, nothing more. But last night we got back to the barge, and I swear, Joe, I had my cell phone out of my pocket to call and the bastard jumped me. Knocked me down, knocked me _out_ and when I came to, I was trussed up like a bondage lover's wet dream. It's taken me all day and night to get free. Guess you weren't expecting any one down there or I could have just waited for you to call around," he said a little bitterly.

"So he's gone? To Cassandra?"

"I honestly don't know. It's probably too late but the Watchers might be able to track him. You've still got a Watcher on her?"

"Yeah - she's back in Scotland. If he turns up there, we'll know."

Methos turned the glass slowly around in his hands. "Somehow, I doubt he'll go there. I think the whole thing was a ruse. He still thinks I'm part of what killed Richie, God alone knows why. He's accepting no responsibility for that at all."

That worried Joe the most of anything he'd heard so far. "That isn't like MacLeod."

"Tell me something I don't know, Joe. Like, even if we catch up with him again, how do we fix him?"

Methos had looked as if he was running on fumes, and sounded right out of energy, ideas, courage and inspiration. In other words, he needed a meal, more booze, sleep and time to get his head back on straight. "You wanna come up and have supper?" Joe asked. "I bet your place isn't fit to be seen."

"I dunno - haven't been back yet. I doubt it. I left fish thawing - can you imagine what the place must smell like now?"

Joe's embarrassment immediately caught the Immortal's attention. "What did you do, Dawson?"

"I uh, told your landlady you'd been called away on a dire emergency. Figured you might've left things in a state. She said she'd make sure you didn't come back to dead plants and stuff, so I guess she dealt with the fish."

For the longest moment, he couldn't read what was in Methos' eyes, and then the old man had gripped his hand. "Thank you, Joe. To take the time ... that was kind."

Even responding to the 'kindness' looked to just about be the last straw for the old man. Methos needed to sleep more than he needed to talk about this - if he was right, Mac was long gone, and beyond their immediate ability to help. Joe'd get the Watchers onto it - a quick email from the back room would do it. He handed Methos the key to his apartment. "Go on up, take a shower. Start supper - I need to report on Mac. You never know, someone might have spotted him already."

"I doubt it somehow." Methos slid off the stool and without another word, picked up his discarded coat and walked to the back to let himself out. Joe checked the front door was locked again, and then made a call and sent a couple of emails. Methos had done good, no matter what he thought. He'd slowed Mac down, kept him alive, given him a little time to recoup. They knew where he'd started his mad flight from - that had to give them a clue.

Wearing Joe's robe, Methos was just coming out of the bathroom as Joe let himself in. The old man stopped moving and stood in the middle of the room as if his batteries had just run out. Which they probably had. "I'm glad you're safe, Methos," Joe said. "I was kinda worried for a while."

Methos' surprised look showed that he'd thought his _own_ welfare was the last thing Joe had been worried about, which was a little insulting. He walked over and put his hand on Methos' shoulder. "You did what you could, no one could have done better," and suddenly found himself with his arms full of shivering, sniffling Immortal. He just held on. Let it out, old man. Tomorrow he would get all the gory details, but not now. Methos had had enough. This was pure and simple grief. Oh, and a lot of sleep deprivation.

When things were a little quieter he asked, "You hungry?" Quick head shake against his shoulder. "Then hit the sack, Methos. There's nothing more you can do tonight."

A last, heavy sigh against his neck and then Methos stood away. "I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his face. "It's been a trying few weeks. For you too, I'm sure."

"It's not a competition, Methos. Go lie down, I'll get the blankets and stuff."

They made up the sofa together, Methos hindering more than helping, his usual grace totally obliterated by his exhaustion. He held onto Joe's hand as Joe straightened up, having just dropped another blanket on him. "Thanks," he said quietly. "I missed your wisdom, Joe."

"Yeah, well, I missed your bar tab."

Methos grinned a little, not fooled. Then he closed his eyes, and damn if he wasn't asleep in exactly one second.

Much as it was sheer relief to have Methos back safe, and however much it was one of his secret, bittersweet pleasures to have Methos all pliant and sleepy in his own place, Joe was just too goddamn tired to think about this little scrap of good fortune for long. With at least one of his worries gone, he could finally catch up on a little sleep.

In fact it was Methos who beat him to the punch, who was making breakfast for them both when he woke up. The smell of coffee and French toast was delicious - he realised that as well as not sleeping, he'd hardly eaten for weeks. Methos looked as if the same was true for him. Joe just hoped one day Mac would come back and appreciate the trouble he'd caused his friends.

The coffee was perfect, and so was the toast - Methos could cook, but didn't bother much with Mac around who was acknowledged by all and sundry to be Egon Ronay's older, better looking cousin when it came to matters culinary. "Feeling better?" Joe asked as he tucked in for a second round.

Methos shrugged. "Could do with another solid night's sleep - didn't get much around MacLeod. Whatever's bedevilling him seemed to have a positive aversion to my being asleep around him."

"He's completely whacky?"

"He's up and down - one minute you're having a perfectly reasonable conversation with him, next minute it's Ahriman this, Ahriman that, and then he's saying Kronos is behind him. After a week of that, I wasn't sure who was the fruitcake any more."

"Did he take his car?"

"No, and he left my sword in the boot. But his passport is gone, and his wallet. I'd say it's a safe bet he's headed out of France, but just where, I don't know."

"People are watching the loft, we'll hear if he turns up there."

"But then what, Joe? Have you thought about it? I thought he was beginning to see sense, but I think that was a mistake." Seeing they were both done, Methos rose and dumped their dishes in the sink, and poured them both more coffee. "The standard cure for a crazy Immortal is decapitation."

Joe stared in shock. "No way, man. I wasn't prepared to let him off you over Cassandra, I ain't gonna stand by and watch you do him. Not over this - this ain't part of the Game."

Methos half-grinned. "You've got this Old Mother Dawson routine down to a fine art, haven't you? Look, you silly bugger, if I didn't take his damn head when he offered it to me, or at any point over the last three weeks, why would I look for him now just to kill him?"

"Someone else might."

Methos stared out over the window where a miserable, horribly wet Paris day was battering against the glass. "That's what I fear more than anything else," he said quietly. "He's not carrying a sword. With time, even this insanity may disappear. But he can't get his head straight if he doesn't have it any more."

"You planning on looking for him?"

Methos shook his head. "No. I just don't know where to start and if you guys can't find him, what chance do I stand? I'll go to him if I can, but until he turns up ... one way or the other, my job should be to stay here and help you with things. Oh, and there's my viva, not that it seems very important just now."

Every line of Methos' face, every word he spoke, screamed how much the viva didn't matter against the loss of the Scot they knew and loved. But Joe knew his reasoning was sound. "We know Mac doesn't use other identities, and he hasn't had time to set one up. He's well known in Watcher circles. Someone, somewhere, will find him. Trust me, Methos."

"It's not like I have a choice. You done with that?"

Joe nodded and his cup was whisked away. Methos washed up the small clutter while Joe dressed fully. "I'd better go home and see what damage has happened. Um - was there anything regarding Ryan's affairs you needed help with? Legal stuff, anything like that?"

It hurt to hear Richie referred to that way, but there wasn't much to do with the kid that didn't hurt in one way or the other. Methos didn't mean any harm, Joe knew. "Nah, I made the Watcher lawyers pull their weight for a change. All that's left is putting the stone up."

Methos patted his hand - the guy had been getting into the habit of touching him a lot lately, Joe had noticed. "I really wished I could have helped with all that, Joe. His death was bad enough, but arranging funerals is a real pain in the arse."

"Yeah, well, it ain't the first time I've done it for a friend. So long as I don't have to do it for you or Mac any of these lifetimes, I'll be happy."

Methos gripped his hand briefly, then stood. "I think we're unanimous on that. Look, I'll come by later once I've had a chance to sort out the mess at my place and at the barge. I had to buy a new cell phone - Duncan trashed my old one. Here, write this down." He read the new number out.

"What's with the phones?"

"I have _no_ idea," Methos said with some exasperation. "All I knew is that if the damn thing rang, he jumped six feet, and if he saw me using it, he went apeshit. Maybe he thought I had a hotline to this Ahriman guy. Who the hell knows?" He picked up his coat, grimaced at its dampness, and pulled out Joe's key from his pocket. "Here, almost forgot."

"Keep it, Methos."

"Why?"

"Uh, well - in case I need my plants watered. Hell, you practically live here some weeks."

God help him if Methos worked out the real reason, but he seemed to buy it. It was pathetic of him, he knew, pretending that if Methos had a key, the next step would be that the old man might move in on more than the sofa, but pathetic was about his speed lately. Methos tossed the key up and caught it. "Okay. I'll be down around seven? If you need help behind the bar, I think I can probably fit you in."

"Might take you up on that. See you 'round, buddy."

Even with Mac missing, Joe realised a huge load of tension had fallen off his shoulders with Methos' return, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Methos was more than a little grateful that MacLeod's bash and dash had happened in Paris. The last time Mac had gone off the rails, Methos had had to cope on his own, and from the little he'd managed to pry out of them about it, the old man had been terrified for his life every second he had been with the Highlander.

The death of Sean Burns, a man admired and respected by both men, had seared Methos' soul - it was more what he hadn't said about it that clued Joe in about the deep guilt he carried, the grief that he buried in the same place in his heart as the memory of Alexa. Methos had very few friends. Losing them hurt him even more deeply than it did MacLeod who, to be blunt, had plenty more where they came from. Not that Mac saw it that way, and the death of such a good man so pointlessly at his own hands was a shame Joe knew Mac would never exorcise.

And now Richie could be added to the pile of MacLeod's dead loved ones, another friend who died at his hands. Even the death of a stranger could cripple a man's soul - the death of a friend, the murder of a boy as close as a son ... was a burden unimaginable to Joe. There was more than a little part of him that would understand if Mac sought death after all this, but the one reassuring thing Methos had said was that, despite his initial reaction, Mac had not asked Methos to take his head again, nor tried to provoke a fatal argument. Methos, ironically, seemed to have been the one most at risk. But with Mac on the loose again and headed god knew where, they couldn't guarantee the suicidal urges wouldn't return.

Aw, crap. He'd told himself that he was going to be more positive today and here he was wallowing - and late. He made his way down stairs where Mike had opened up, giving him a reproachful look for his slothfulness. Joe tried to ignore it - it was his place after all - but the guy had a point. Either he was serious about making a go of this joint or he wasn't, and if he wasn't he should just close it down and be a full time Watcher, dull as that threatened to be. He more than once wished Methos was 'out' to the organisation, and then maybe he could get to be the kid's Watcher too. Yeah, right, he snorted quietly. Methos ever got wind of that, he'd disappear and that would be the last _anyone_ would hear of him.

And that wasn't the only thing Methos better never hear about. He really had to stop inviting the guy to stay over. One of these days he was going to make the biggest fool to ever come from the Windy City out of himself and then he would lose a friend. He didn't have enough to spare. He wasn't Duncan MacLeod.

* * *

Methos had turned up when he said he would, but didn't talk much. He still looked tired - from the little he did say, Joe could understand why. An insane MacLeod was still a clever, able, cunning opponent, and the older Immortal had barely dared to close his eyes or turn his back. Methos still cursed himself for the lapse that allowed MacLeod to escape - Joe just figured it was inevitable.

He left the old man alone to tend bar, clean tables, whatever helped him deal with his worry. They were clearing up when the call came, but it wasn't the good news they'd been hoping for. Joe watched Methos' face grow pale as it became obvious from his conversation that MacLeod had been spotted - but then been lost.

"He knows you've got a Watcher on her," Methos said, slamming his fist down on the bar, and then cradling it as if he'd broken it. "Fucking son of a bitch!" He whirled away and vented his rage on a chair, knocking it off the table and throwing it. Joe let him go to. Better a chair than his hand again, or some mortal's head. "That was our last hope, Joe. He's gone to ground."

"We'll find him, Methos. Have some faith."

"In the _Watchers_?" Methos said with insulting incredulity. "Give me a break, Joe. You guys couldn't find Kronos, didn't even know about him, and he wasn't even trying to hide! Mac is desperate, he's smart, and he knows about you. No fucking way will you catch him now."

Not what you were saying this morning, buddy, Joe thought with a little irritation. "So, breaking my furniture is going to fix that?" he asked mildly, and was given a look of pure disgust. But then Methos picked the chair he'd been abusing, and replaced it on the table.

"Sorry," he said with obvious effort. "It's not your fault, it's mine."

"It's neither, Methos. Mac's gone crazy - nothing to do with you or me."

"You're absolutely sure about that, are you, Dawson? He's taken the heads of three very crazy, very off-balance Immortals because of me in the last couple of months, and who's to say the Holy Spring was any more than a delaying tactic?"

Joe took his time, closed down his laptop and put his phone away before limping out from behind the bar and pulling a chair down to sit in. He looked up at the pacing Immortal. "Mac's away so you're assuming the role of protector of the Universe?"

"I'm just ...."

Joe cut him off impatiently. "Being an arrogant little prick and thinking the whole world falls off its axis because of you. Mac can't go crazy on his own? You don't think it was his decision to fight Byron and the others? I seem to recall you trying to stop him killing one of those guys at least."

"He killed them because of my association with them." Methos had that arms crossed around him, defensive posture Joe hated. Really hated.

"Bullshit, you old fool. Mac does what Mac does. You can't change his mind, and I gave up trying a long time ago. Maybe that's why he's cracked - maybe he's getting too rigid. You know four hundred is a dangerous age for Immortals. You make it past that, then maybe you got what it takes for the long haul, like Amanda. Maybe Mac ain't got it."

Methos curled his lip but it was hardly a smile. "You aren't making me feel any happier about this, Joe."

"Well, maybe this time you don't - we don't - get to have a happy ending." It was killing Joe to admit it but it needed saying before they destroyed themselves. "Mac killed his student, his son. Maybe that's a sin too big for the universe to swallow. Maybe he's gonna get whacked running around like a headless chicken. Maybe he's gonna come back sane and with it again. I don't _know_ , Methos. You sure as hell don't, but until he lets us get close, or until we find him and hogtie him again, there's nothing - nothing, you hear? - that we can do. So why don't you cut yourself a break and get on with your life and if he comes back, the two of us will be happy to see him and there'll be something left for him to find."

Methos had turned away and was leaning on the bar. "Can't lose him, Joe," he said so quietly Joe thought he might have imagined the words. "Too important. Too ... well loved."

"That don't always count, buddy. If it did ... well, Alexa would be still alive."

Nothing. He knew, as if there had been any doubt, that he'd been heard by the sudden tense set of Methos' shoulders. Well, he'd said all he could, done all he could for that night. He levered himself upright and walked over to the Immortal, lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Go home, Methos," he said kindly.

Methos turned and pulled him into a tight hug, which surprised the hell out of him. "Oh, Joe, at least there's you," he said, voice muffled against Joe's sweater.

"Always glad to be the stand-in, Methos." Hey, he hadn't meant it to sound _that_ bitter.

Methos' grip tightened. "Never, my friend. You're nobody's second best." He raised his head. "Could I impose on your sofa one more night? I need ... not to be alone, just tonight."

"Sure, pal," Joe said, a little shocked. "No big deal. So long as you clean up after yourself, you can stay as long as you like."

Methos smiled a little. "That won't be necessary. But it's a rare comfort to have someone watching my back. I'm getting all feeble and nervous in my old age."

Joe snorted, and Methos laughed, before letting him go. "Well, go on," Joe urged, nudging him. "I need my beauty sleep."

Methos regarded him. "Yes, you do," he said solemnly, and Joe hit him on the leg with his cane. He wasn't gonna stand for no sauce, no matter how in love with this jerk he was.

Days turned into weeks, into months and all that changed was that Methos passed his viva and was duly doctored. They celebrated in subdued fashion, each of them remembering with more than a little pain the bright, pleasant evening they had spent on the barge to mark the handing in of the thesis. A week later, Richie was dead, Mac was off his head, and less than a month after that, missing. Despite the efforts of virtually the entire worldwide organisation, there hadn't been a whisper of the Scot. No Challenges, no sightings, no rumours. Methos seemed sure Mac was still alive, but when pressed on the subject, could offer no more proof than the feeling in his gut, which was actually more than they had to go on from any other source. Joe was more than happy to pretend that Methos had some unnatural link to MacLeod that allowed him to know the Highlander was still alive. It was infinitely better than dwelling on the alternative.

The thing that got him, as he had said with some passion one night just after Easter, was that there hadn't been even an unconfirmed sighting of the guy. "Well, he's not the easiest man to be mistaken about, Joe. Not with the hair and those looks," Methos had said, a little fondly.

"Yeah, even if he dyed it blond, there's still those eyebrows..."

"And the lips, don't forget the MacLeod pout," Methos had said with a little grin. You should talk, Methos, Joe thought, smiling a little to himself. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, I was just thinking about disguises - wondering how the Watchers hadn't picked up on certain features in common before."

"You mean ...?" Methos glared at him, hands on hips.

"The nose, man. That beak. You could dye your hair strawberry and paint your face purple, and the nose would give you away, every time."

One venomous look, but then Methos relaxed and laughed. "I guess that's a fair point, now you come to mention it. I was never big on disguises."

"Something you and Mac have in common, then."

They didn't talk about MacLeod much any more - that had been the longest conversation about him in weeks - but he was always there in their minds, like the ghost at the feast. Every time the phone went in the bar, Joe saw Methos tense infinitesimally, hoping it was word about their friend. It never was.

Methos wasn't around for a couple of days after that - the University were doing their annual recruitment promotion and Methos was helping out with the evening sessions, his multilingualism much in demand. Even though he wasn't needed in the bar, Joe had got used to him being around, and managed to annoy himself with how he would look around sharply every time the door opened or closed. Get over it, you silly old fool, he told himself bitterly, one day he'll be gone for good.

About half-way through the evening, when the boys were blowing hot on stage and the place was really jumping, he was too busy to keep watch, so he had been surprised when he'd turned around to find a tall man with a shorter, much younger companion patiently waiting to be served. "A beer for me, please, and André, Liebling...?"

The young thing whispered in the older man's ear and his boyfriend smiled. "Ein bier ... a beer for him also."

Joe took an instant dislike to the sugar daddy and thought about asking the kid for ID just to piss them both off, before shaking himself mentally and telling himself to behave. The stranger was German which didn't help, even though he knew he was being irrational. He always found Germans as a group a little hard to like. This guy looked the epitome of the Aryan ideal and cold as ice. Steel blue eyes, white blond hair, and the palest of pale skin to go with it. A good looking creep, Joe had to give him that - he had money too, by the looks of it, with a sharply tailored black high buttoned suit over a white silk collarless shirt, while a dully discreet Rolex peeped out from one immaculate sleeve. The man's hands were big, perfectly manicured, not that you got to see them much since the guy couldn't keep them off his little friend, snuggling and fondling his ass. Joe prided himself on a total lack of homophobia but there was something obscene about the way this fella claimed the boy as his own so blatantly. He needed them to get away from the bar. "Bring them over to your table?" he offered, and Mr Big nodded distractedly. Andre led him by the hand over to a free table.

They behaved themselves more or less, although Joe was glad he couldn't see under the table where their hands spend most of the time. The boy contented himself by cuddling the older man, but Sugar Daddy seemed genuinely interested in the music - and in surveying the room as if he was looking for someone. Suddenly Joe's Watcher antennae went into action. The guy was an Immortal, had to be. The arrogance, the money, the easy sexuality - typical. He checked out the expensive suit more carefully - yeah, it could be hiding a short sword, or a gun, no probs. The bar was too busy for him to make an excuse and slip out to check the database, but the second he could, he planned to do so. No Watcher around that he could see - was this guy an Immortal they didn't know about?

Blondie caught him Watching a couple of times, and the second time, he lifted his beer glass in ironic salute, which warned Joe to back off. The evening was nearly over, people were drifting off, but Sugar and his baby were still hanging around. Joe did his best to ignore them.

He was at the bar again when the guy came over. "Excuse me, may I ask a question of you?" The polite, accented tones sounded harmless enough, but there was a crafty intelligence in the blue eyes Joe had distrusted.

"Sure, what do you want to know?"

"I have a friend, Adam Pierson. He told me about your establishment, recommended it in fact. I was hoping to see him here tonight."

The alarms were ringing like crazy now. "He ain't been in for a few days," Joe said frankly. "I don't see him around much, to be honest," he lied.

The guy looked genuinely disappointed. "Oh," he said. "We have a lot to catch up on. From the old days, in Heidelberg. Are you sure you don't know where I can find him?"

Joe pretended he couldn't see the large currency note held out between long fingers. "No, pal," he said bluntly, now completely sure he'd made this guy correctly. Heidelberg - that was where Methos had done his medical training, or so he said. The man had more or less come out and admitted he was Immortal. "If he ain't friendly enough with you to give you his card, I ain't giving you his address. We value privacy in this country."

The man bowed his head a little in acknowledgement, as if Joe had not just been incredibly rude. "I understand. In that case, may I trouble you for another beer?"

Joe turned and bent to the bar fridge to get a bottle of the expensive imported stuff the guy had been drinking all night. "Privacy, Joe? That's rich coming from a Watcher."

Hearing the familiar tones, Joe nearly broke something snapping upright and swivelling. Methos! He was ... right there, blond haired, extracting the blue contact lenses from his eyes and grinning like a fool. "You ... you ...." he sputtered.

"Oh, you didn't notice my nose?" Methos said innocently, spoiling the act with the broad smile. "André, it's over," he called out.

The kid - not really a kid, Joe could tell now the spell was broken - walked over. "Hey, Adam, did it work?" He was grinning too.

"What do you think?" Methos said, indicating Joe who had no trouble maintaining the expression of shocked surprise he knew Methos was hoping for. "Thanks, mon ami," he said with a final friendly squeeze of the kid's arm, "I'll see you at the University tomorrow."

André slapped Methos' shoulder. "Au matin, Adam. Ciao."

Methos perched on a stool and waited until the bar was closed and Mike had been sent home. "Made you look," he said in a sing-song voice.

"You went to all that trouble just to prove a point?"

"And to have a little fun. I can always dye my hair black again. Or maybe I'll shave it off," he added mischievously, grimacing at his reflection in the bar mirror. "What do you think? Is blond my colour?"

Privately, Joe thought Methos looked good enough to eat with a spoon. "I think they should paint a yellow circle on your chest and warn people the stupid might rub off," he growled, but only with mock irritation. It delighted him that Methos would make the effort to have so much fun at his expense. And boy, the old man was gonna dine off this one for weeks. "Some Watcher, huh." Thought he may as well say it first. "Damn good trick, though," he admitted.

Methos acknowledged the self-abuse with a little bow. "Standard conjuring, Joe. A little misdirection, a few special effects, and a lot of distraction," he said mildly, without the smugness Joe had expected.

He tucked the contacts away in a case, shed the beautiful jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and got down to helping Joe clear up, much to the bar man's dismay. "Hey, ain't you worried about the fancy duds?"

"Oh, these rags? Nah, never get a chance to wear them. Adam Pierson can't afford them."

"Or the Rolex?"

"No, sadly. Can't wait until I kill him off. I'm going to be a filthy rich drug dealer in my next incarnation, and then I can spring my wardrobe from storage."

You probably will, Methos, Joe thought wryly. "Mac would never dye his hair. Or cut it off." He regretted the comment instantly, but Methos continued calmly washing out the ashtrays.

"You never know what you might do in a pinch," he said evenly. And that was just the simple truth.

* * *

He'd known Methos was hanging on in Paris for him, and on the increasingly remote chance MacLeod would reappear in Joe's lifetime. It was doing him no good, and finally Joe took him to task over it. "You ever gonna get a job, Methos?" he'd challenged one evening when yet again, Methos was mooching around the bar, helping out again even though it wasn't really needed. It was criminal - the spring was fine and warm, the kid should have been out enjoying the nightlife and not hanging around this joint, waiting for something that was never gonna happen.

"I don't need the money, Joe. I thought you wanted me here." Methos backed away, his body tense and his stance defensive. He'd been jumpy for days, and nobody's idea of Mr Sunshine.

"Want, yes. Need, no. Look, if Mac never comes back to Paris - are you gonna hang around here forever?"

"He'll come back," Methos said with a certainty Joe couldn't bring himself to agree with.

"No, he won't. It's been nearly a year. Christmas is gone, so it's not that he's avoiding that. No one's seen hide nor hair of him in all that time. He's either dead or wants us to think he is."

Methos shook his head and turned away. "You're wrong. He'll come back. He has too much here to lose."

"He's got too much pain here to face, Methos. He ain't coming back. I've known him for twenty years, and he's never done this before. He's building a new life for himself somewhere. I hope he's happy, I'm praying for it. But you've got to move on. We both have to."

Still not looking at him. "As a matter of fact, I've been offered a job in Cardiff."

Now that was a complete surprise to Joe. "Then take it, if it's what you want."

He thought Methos was going to throw something, but all he did was answer in a clipped, dry tone that made it sound like his own words were poison to him. "It is no more what I want than you wearing tin legs is what _you_ want, Joe. It's an accommodation I am forced to make with life, but trust me, 'want' doesn't come into it."

"Tell it to the Marines, Methos," Joe shot back rudely. "You telling me you can't cope with a little bad luck?"

"This is not about me, Joe Dawson," Methos gritted, barely opening his mouth, he was so angry. "This is about the loss of possibly the single most important Immortal, the most important individual in the Game, a man anyone would be proud to know, let alone call friend. Losing him is an extraordinary tragedy for the future of our race. You'll have to forgive me if 'moving on' with my life seems a little unimportant to me. You're not Immortal, you can't possibly understand."

"You little shit," Joe spat, instantly furious. "I've spent my whole adult life Watching you guys - don't tell me I don't know."

"Yes, well, the specimens are very grateful for your attention, Watcher Dawson."

The sudden antagonism was sharp and acrid in the air, and Joe wondered what had just happened. A gulf had opened up between them, wide and fatally deep, and Methos wasn't making any attempt to bridge across. "Methos, this isn't an 'you' and an 'us' thing ...."

"No? Tell me, Dawson. Why couldn't I take MacLeod to a doctor? Because he's Immortal. Why was Richie even around to be killed by him, instead of dead alongside Tessa? Because _he_ was Immortal. And why, ultimately, when Duncan finally meets the Challenge I can't save him from, will you just write up his closing account and shelve the book along with the others of our kind? Because he's _Immortal._ " He spat the last word. "You have no fucking idea what it's like for us, and I've just about had it up to here with your advice about how I should run my life while a man like him is out there, lost and alone and in danger. Stick to your own kind, Dawson. Leave Immortality to the experts."

Methos slapped the bar, picked his coat up and pushed past him to the front door. Joe roused himself from his shock. "Methos!"

He was completely ignored, and the next thing he heard was the door slamming. His eyes caught something shiny on the car - his apartment key. Methos really was saying they were through.

A week later, he got a stiff, polite note with a change of address, nothing more - he supposed he really ought to be grateful for that much, at least. Methos was moving to Wales, to teach at Cardiff University, and Joe would do as he had been doing for nearly a year now. He would wait.

Now he stood in the middle of his bar, all he had left. Contemplating his empty bar, and the empty life it represented. Finally he just switched off the lights and went up stairs. The time for dramatic gestures was long gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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